


Showdown

by Duck_Life



Category: X-Force (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Fights, Gen, Gladiators, Mojoworld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 18:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19156153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: An ancient rebel legend goes up against one of Mojo V's most accomplished gladiators.





	Showdown

Shatterstar steps into the arena amid the shouts and applause from the stands. His swords buzz in his hands, ready to go. Tonight’s event had been announced suddenly, a surprise fight, and the previously scheduled programming had been shunted to a later airing period. Shatterstar does not know why, but he can guess. 

Occasionally, Lord Mojo punishes rebels and dissenters by tossing them in the ring with one of his prized gladiators. As soon as Shatterstar gets a good look at his opponent, he knows his guess was right.

The man wears the symbol of the ancient rebellion over his right breast— a yellow star, eight points. The same shape as the mark on Shatterstar’s eye. Abruptly, Shatterstar feels a flash of anger. It is an act of humiliation, to pit him against a lowly rebel. He should be fighting true warriors, real  _ competition _ , instead of this weak-willed joke of a man. 

Good for ratings, though, good for Lord Mojo’s propaganda, to show an elite warrior of the Arena defeat a rebel. Reminds the audience who has the power. Who the lucky ones are. 

Still.

Shatterstar prefers a fair fight. 

A shrill tone sounds all around him, singing through his blood. Shatterstar crouches, preparing for the battle. The man does not move, just keeps standing there. Shatterstar snarls and lunges forward, swords at the ready. His footwork is precise, his timing perfect. 

Or so he thought.

At the last second, the man dodges, stepping aside and evading the swing of Shatterstar’s double-bladed sword. There’s a roar from the crowd— astonishment, awe. They think the rebel has outsmarted him. In truth, he’s only postponed the inevitable. Shatterstar spins quickly on his heel and swings again. 

This time, the man jumps to get away, propelling himself through the air and flipping backward three, four times before landing perfectly. He moves through the air almost as if gravity has no hold on him, as if he can ride on the wind itself, as if…

As if he, too, has hollow bones. 

But Shatterstar can match him in speed and agility, best him in strength for sure. He executes near-identical acrobatics and slashes at the rebel. Once again, the man dodges and runs. 

“Coward!” Shatterstar shouts, pursuing him across the arena. “Why will you not fight back?”

The man crouches near the edge of the ring. The bandelier slung over his shoulder holds plenty of knives, yet he has not attempted to throw one. “My fight is with Mojo, in this and every incarnation,” the rebel calls back. His voice is mild, pleasant even, as if he does not realize he is going to die here. “I have no quarrel with you.”

“I am going to kill you,” Shatterstar says, like a statement, like he needs this man to understand what is going to happen. What always happens. 

Everyone Shatterstar has killed knew it was coming before it happened. Everyone Shatterstar has killed was trying to kill him, too. If this man is truly so naive, if he does not grasp his own mortality… Somehow, it feels  _ wrong _ to cancel him. Cancellation has never felt  _ wrong _ before, not like this. 

“You might,” the rebel acknowledges. “You might kill me. I’m sorry for that.” 

_ Sorry _ ?

“You apologize to me for your own cancellation?” Shatterstar asks, tearing after him. He gets close enough to see the man’s eye burn bright, and then the rebel ducks around him and runs in the opposite direction. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t prevent this!” the rebel shouts over his shoulder. “I meant to stop Mojo and the Slaughter Games. I didn’t want anyone to fight in the Arena ever again. We deserve our freedom. And I’m sorry you aren’t free.” 

Not free? A ridiculous notion. “This is not  _ my _ execution,” Shatterstar points out, still laden with the uneasy responsibility of making sure his opponent understands the situation. “It is yours.” 

“That’s right,” the man says. Shatterstar thrusts his sword forward and the rebel jumps away again, twisting in midair and landing several yards away. “I’m trying to figure out  _ why _ . Mojo could have killed me himself. Could’ve made Spiral do it— that would have boosted ratings, for sure. So why this, why now? Why you? Why would Mojo bring me 100 years into the future to be killed by  _ you _ ?” 

“I am a high-ranking warrior,” Shatterstar declares, moving toward his opponent. “I have cancelled many. I attract many sponsors.” As he draws near, the rebel finally makes his move, tossing three of his blades toward Shatterstar. They tear through the cloth of his costume, missing his skin entirely but pinning him to the wall of the arena. He snarls, snapping his teeth, and the rebel steps closer. 

“I’m sure that’s all true,” the rebel says. “But what’s your connection to  _ me _ ? What makes Mojo think it would be funny if you killed me?” He faces Shatterstar, meeting his eyes. “Who are you?” 

“I am the last face you will ever see,” Shatterstar says. 

The man tilts his head to the side, thinking. “My psychometry doesn’t usually work on people,” he admits, his hand moving toward Shatterstar’s face, “but with a little luck…” His eye flares bright, his hand nearly grazes Shatterstar’s face— 

Shatterstar breaks loose, hearing the material of his gladiatorial uniform rip behind him. He puts distance between himself and the rebel, rearing for an attack. He is now confident this man understands his predicament, understands his own mortality. Did he not just try to snap Shatterstar’s neck? 

“I am Shatterstar,” he says. “And you are cancelled.” Taking inspiration from the rebel’s knife-throwing, Shatterstar hurls his sword. His aim is true, and the sword is sailing for the rebel’s chest.

At the last instant, the man’s infernal eye burns bright again. The sword misses him by inches, landing behind him. Shatterstar screams, enraged, but the man just turns around and picks up the fallen sword. 

“You cannot touch it,” Shatterstar tells him, stalking forward. “These weapons are attuned to my unique biological signature. No one else can…” The words die in his throat. 

The rebel is holding the sword.

Nothing is happening. 

The sword does not shake, does not jump from his hand like hot coals, does not seem to cause him any discomfort. It looks as natural in the rebel’s hand as it did in Shatterstar’s. “Impossible,” Shatterstar says, staring at him. “How are you doing that?” 

“I admit I’m not much of a swordsman,” the rebel says, still holding the sword. “So heavy.” 

“This is impossible,” Shatterstar says, feeling as though he’s had the wind knocked out of him. “I and I alone can wield these swords. They are keyed into my very DNA.” 

“Well, then I guess we…” The man’s curious smile drops from his face. “I guess we have more in common than I thought.” 

“I don’t understand,” Shatterstar says, hating the admission, the uncertainty in his voice. 

“Me neither,” the rebel says, approaching him. “But I have a hunch. Call it a lucky guess.” Shatterstar slashes with his remaining sword. The rebel meets him strike for strike. The swords clash and clang against each other. 

The man may be able to  _ hold _ Shatterstar’s sword, but he does not have the ability to make it  _ sing _ the way it sings for Shatterstar. As their battle narrows, as the fight becomes closer and closer, Shatterstar begins to hum.

The swords hum with him, vibrating. Finally, Shatterstar overtakes the rebel, disarming him and knocking him to the ground. Shatterstar follows him down, one knee pinning the rebel down, his sword raised.

Up in the stands, the audience begins to shout his name, along with cries of, “Cancel! Cancel! Cancel!” 

Weakly, the man reaches up once more to touch Shatterstar’s face. Shatterstar’s breath comes in rattling gasps, as if he is the one near death, not the rebel. The rebel touches his cheek, and then the mark over his eye, the star-mark that is the same shape as the symbol on the rebel’s suit. The man’s eye lights up again, and his expression shifts. As though he is seeing something that isn’t there. 

“Za’s vid,” the rebel gasps, looking up at Shatterstar. “You poor child.”

“How dare you?” Shatterstar screams, driving his sword into the ground beside the rebel’s face. He is enraged, furious, too angry now to let the rebel die quick and merciful. “You patronize me at your own peril. I am a warrior born!”

“No, you’re really not,” the rebel says. His strange eyes are sad. “Shatterstar… oh, Shatterstar. I am so sorry.” 

Shatterstar shakes his head, suddenly nervous at how swiftly he lost control of the situation. He should smash the rebel’s skull right now. He should strangle him. So why doesn’t he? What is stopping him from cancelling his opponent and winning the fight? 

“This isn’t what we wanted for you,” the rebel continues. “We meant to take you away from all of this. We only wanted to protect you.” 

“You are speaking nonsense,” Shatterstar hisses. 

“No, only the truth,” the man says. “Though I admit the two often overlap.” 

“Who are you?” Shatterstar demands. Until now, the rebel’s identity didn’t matter to him at all. But these things he’s saying, the lies he’s spouting… they have dug into Shatterstar’s mind with hooks and teeth. He will know this traitor’s designation before he kills him. 

“They call me Longshot,” the rebel says, sparking recognition. Shatterstar remembers the stories. The rebellion’s fallen messiah, doomed to fail and fall in every attempt he makes to steal Mojo’s viewership and profits. To be the warrior to kill Longshot is a great honor. 

But Shatterstar does not feel honorable or great. His chest feels hollow. Bile rises at the back of his throat. He raises his arm, gripping the handle of his sword. 

“Shatterstar, wait,” Longshot says. “I’m your—”

The air explodes with light and sound. 

A portal opens up right in the center of the arena and a group of biped rebels pours out. Shatterstar recognizes two of them— the horned one is Quark, a rebel leader out of legend, and the woman beside him must be the Dazzler. 

“Longshot!” Dazzler yells, sending a blast of light toward Shatterstar. It hits him and moves  _ through  _ him, leaving only a vague tingling sensation behind. Dazzler looks surprised. 

It’s enough to distract him, though, and Longshot manages to slip out from beneath his grasp. Quark grabs him and hauls him toward the portal. Shatterstar just watches. 

Everyone here is insulting the Spineless Ones by interfering in a scheduled match. He should kill them all.

He does not  _ want _ to.

“Wait,” Longshot shouts, turning back. “Shatterstar—” But Dazzler yanks him through the portal, and the rest of the rebels follow. The hole in time and space vanishes, leaving Shatterstar alone in the arena. 

The crowd roars. Over the loudspeakers, Mojo is howling with rage. 

Shatterstar kneels in the sand with his sword in his hand, and he does not move until a handler comes for him. 


End file.
